Annie Grant found her friend strangely uncommunicative on the subject
of her fit of weeping; she declared that it was nothing--that she felt
nervous and overtired, but that a good night’s rest was all she required
to set her to rights again; then kissing her affectionately, Laura,
with much caressing, turned her out of the room. As sound sleep was the
specific to which Miss Peyton trusted for the restoration of her health
and spirits, it can scarcely be imagined that, after passing four
restless hours in a vain attempt to obtain the desired boon, she should
have felt particularly refreshed. Weary both in mind and body, she
was aroused from a dreamy, half-sleeping, half-waking, but wholly
uncomfortable state into which she had fallen by the sun shining
brightly into her room. The beauty of the morning, though a thick hoar
frost lay upon the ground, banished all further desire for sleep, and
commencing her toilet, she resolved on a scheme which her
acquaintance with the usual habits of the family led her to conceive
feasible--namely, to possess herself of the third volume of a new novel
in which she was considerably interested, and with that for a companion,
to take a brisk walk in the clear morning air and return ere any of
the party had made their appearance at the breakfast-table. Dressing
hastily, she wrapped herself in a thick shawl and tripped lightly down
the staircase, only encountering in her progress a drowsy housemaid, who
stared at her with lack-lustre eyes, as though she took her for a ghost.
Before she could carry her whole plan into execution, however, it was
necessary that she should visit the library in order to procure the
volume she wished to take with her. Opening the door quickly, she
had proceeded half-way across the room ere she perceived it was not
untenanted. As she paused, uncertain whether or not to proceed, Charles
Leicester--for he it was who, acting on his resolution of the previous
night, was writing a few lines to account for his abrupt departure--rose
from the table at which he had been sitting and advanced towards her.
He was attired for a journey, and his pale features and the dark circles
under his eyes gave token of a sleepless night. There was a restless
energy in his tone and manner, as he addressed her, totally opposed to
his usual listless indifference; and no one could be in his company a
moment without perceiving that (to use a common but forcible expression)
something had come over him--that he was (at all events, for the
present) a changed man.
“You are an early riser, Miss Peyton,” he said. “I did not expect to
have an opportunity of wishing you good-bye in person.”
“I was not aware you intended leaving Broadhurst so soon,” returned
Laura, feeling, she scarcely knew why, exceedingly uncomfortable. “Shall
you return before the party breaks up?”
“No. I shall go abroad directly, and endeavour to procure an attachéship
to one of the embassies; the Turkish, I think: I’ve never seen
Constantinople.”
“Surely you’ve formed this resolution somewhat abruptly,” observed Miss
Peyton. “It was only yesterday you agreed to escort your cousin Annie
and myself to ride over and sketch the ruins of Monkton Priory. I was
thinking this morning, as soon as I saw the sunshine, what a charming
canter we should have.”
“I should be more sorry, Miss Peyton, to be forced to break so agreeable
an engagement, did I not feel certain _you_ will have no difficulty in
supplying my place on the occasion,” returned Leicester, laying a
marked emphasis on the pronoun. “I must now wish you good morning,” he
continued; then bowing coldly, he took up his hat and turned to leave
the room.
Miss Peyton allowed him to reach the door ere she could make up her mind
what course to pursue; then colouring brightly, she exclaimed, “Stay one
moment, Mr. Leicester.” As he paused, and closing the door, which he had
partially opened, turned towards her, she continued, “I will not affect
to misunderstand your allusion, and although the subject is one on which
I should not willingly have entered, I consider it due to myself not to
suffer you to depart under a mistake, into which I should have thought
you knew me too well to have fallen.”
“Mistake!” repeated Leicester eagerly. “Is it possible that I can be
mistaken? Are you not then engaged to Mr. De Grandeville?”
“Most assuredly am I not,” returned Miss Peyton, “nor, unless I very
greatly alter my opinion of that gentleman, shall I ever be so. I did
think Mr. Leicester would have given me credit for better taste than to
have supposed such a thing possible, but I see I was mistaken; and now,”
she added, “having found the book I came to seek, I must wish you good
morning, and--a pleasant journey to Constantinople.”
“Stay, Miss Peyton,” exclaimed Leicester, for once really excited; “you
have said too much or too little. Pardon me,” he continued, “I will not
detain you five minutes, but speak I must.” Taking her hand, he led her
to a seat, and resumed--
“I am placed in a position equally painful and difficult, but the best
and most straightforward course I can pursue will be to tell you in as
few words as possible the simple truth, and then leave you to decide
upon my fate. The difficulty! have to encounter is this:--You are an
heiress; I, a portionless younger brother, without a profession, and
brought up in expensive and indolent habits. Were I then to tell you
that I love you, and that the dearest wish of my heart is to call you
mine, how can I expect you to think that I am not actuated by mercenary
motives? to believe that I do indeed, deeply, truly love you, with an
intensity of which I scarcely could have believed my nature capable?
When first I sought your society, I frankly own (and if the admission
ruins my cause I cannot help it, for I will not attempt to deceive you)
it was the report of your riches which attracted me. I considered you
lady-like and agreeable, and this being the case, I would willingly have
done as I saw men of my acquaintance do everyday--married for money; but
as I became intimate with you, and discovered the priceless treasures
of your heart and mind, my views and feelings altered. I soon learned
to love you for yourself alone, and then for the first time, when I
perceived that in marrying you I had everything to gain and nothing
to offer in return, I became fully aware of the meanness of the act I
contemplated--in fact I saw the matter in its true light, and felt
that to ask you to become my wife would be an insult rather than a
compliment. Thus, the more I grew to love you, the less I ventured to
show it, till at last, pride coming to my assistance, I resolved to tear
myself away, and quitted Scotland abruptly, intending never to renew our
intimacy, unless some unexpected stroke of fortune should enable me
to do so on more equal terms. My cousin Annie, however, had it seems
guessed my secret, and invited you here without mentioning her intention
to me till you had actually arrived. Had I acted consistently, I should
have left this place a fortnight ago; but I had suffered so much
during my absence, and the delight of again associating with you was so
overpowering, that I had not sufficient strength of will to carry out
my determination; thus I continued day by day yielding myself to the
fascination of your society, learning to love you more and more, and
yet not daring to tell you so, because I felt the impossibility of
proving--even now it seems absurd to say--my disinterestedness; but that
I loved you for yourself alone. Such had been for some days my state of
feeling, when yesterday I was nearly driven distracted by that man, De
Grandeville, actually selecting me as his confidant, and consulting me
of all people in the world as to the advisability of making you an offer
of marriage, hinting that he had reason to believe such a proposal would
be favourably received by you.”
“Insolent!” exclaimed Miss Peyton, raising her eyes for the first time
during Leicester’s address, and looking him full in the face. “So
far from encouraging him, I have never spoken to him save to turn his
pompous speeches into ridicule since I was first introduced to him.”
“So I would fain have taught myself to believe yesterday,” resumed
Leicester; “but the coldness of your manner towards me, and the marked
attention you allowed him to pay you during the evening, tortured me
with doubts, and when, after an animated conversation in the music-room,
I saw him raise your hand to his lips, I imagined he had put his design
into execution, and was an accepted suitor.”
“A rejected one would have been nearer the mark,” murmured Miss Peyton.
“Utterly miserable,” continued Leicester, “at the idea of having
irrevocably lost you--provoked that you should have accepted a man so
completely your inferior in mind, and, indeed, in every particular,
I ordered post-horses before I retired for the night, and but for this
accidental meeting should have been already on my road to London. And
now,” he continued with passionate eagerness, “it is for you to decide
whether my future life is to be happy or miserable. If truth has any
power of revealing itself, you will believe that I love you deeply,
tenderly, for yourself alone; and you will decide whether such an
affection is calculated to ensure your happiness; but if you are unable
to credit my sincerity, only say the word, and I leave you for ever.”
He ceased, and clenching his hands in the excess of his emotion till
the nails appeared to grow into the flesh, stood before her, pale and
agitated, like a criminal awaiting the sentence which shall send him
forth a free man or consign him to a felon’s grave. After watching her
anxiously for a few moments, during which she remained without speaking,
her head averted and her features concealed by her close straw bonnet,
he resumed: “I see it is in vain to wait; your silence tells me that
I have nothing to hope--fool that I was ever to deem it could be
otherwise! Farewell, Laura; may you be as happy as I would have striven
to render you.”
He turned, and his hand was again on the lock of the door, when a low,
sweet voice, every accent of which thrilled through his very soul,
murmured--
“Mr. Leicester--Charles--do not go--you will not leave me?”
And accordingly he did _not_ go, but came back instantly like an
amiable, obedient young man as he was, and received the reward of merit
by learning from the lips of her he loved that she was not only convinced
of the sincerity of the affection he had bestowed on her, but prized
the gift so highly that she felt obliged to return it, which statement
sounded very like a contradiction, but was nothing of the kind.
Then followed a bright, happy half-hour, one of those little bits of
unmitigated sunshine which gleam once or twice in a lifetime to thaw
the ice that tears which have never found vent form more or less thickly
around the heart of each of us; and ere it was over, Laura Peyton stood
pledged to become the wife of Charley Leicester, who dis-ordered the
post-horses and postponed his journey to Constantinople _ad infinitum_.
Several droll little scenes occurred later on that morning between
various members of the party assembled at Broadhurst. In the first
place, Annie Grant, who, completely tired out, and greatly concerned
at the mysterious impediments which obstructed the course of her cousin
Charles’s love affair, had sought her pillow with a firm conviction she
should never close her eyes all night, fell asleep immediately, and woke
soon after nine o’clock on the following morning under the impression
that she had just gone to bed. While she was dressing she resolved in
her anxious mind her cousin’s difficulties, and came to the following
conclusions: first, that for sundry reasons connected with his natural
indolence and a painful sense of his dependent position, Charley would
never “tell his love;” secondly, that Laura, not divining these reasons,
was piqued and hurt at his prolonged silence; and thirdly, that it
behoved her (Annie) to remove these stumbling-blocks by a little
judicious interference. Accordingly, when she had finished her toilet,
and, giving a last parting glance at her pretty face and graceful figure
in the cheval glass in her dressing-room, had thought--well, I don’t
know that we’ve any business to pry into her thoughts, but by the bright
half-smile, half-blush which resulted from the inspection it may be
concluded they were of an agreeable nature. When she had performed this
little unconscious act of homage to her own beauty she tripped off to
her friend’s room, and found that young lady fastening a very dangerous
little bow of ribbon around her neck, with a small turquoise brooch
made in the shape of a true lover’s knot. I wonder why she should have
selected _it_ from some twenty others on that morning in particular?
“Idle girl!” exclaimed Annie, kissing her affectionately, as if idleness
were a highly commendable quality, “idle girl! not dressed at ten
o’clock, and I’ve been ready for the last five minutes.”
“I’m very sorry, dear; but if you knew what pleasant dreams I’ve
enjoyed, you would not wish to have dispelled them,” returned Laura
demurely, though there was a fund of merriment gleaming in her dark eyes
which Annie in her innocence did not perceive. Feeling, however, that
under the circumstances her friend had no business to have been so very
happy, even in her dreams, she answered somewhat pettishly--
“You have been more favoured than I have been. I went to bed cross and
worried, and fretted over all my troubles again in my dreams. Laura
dear,” she continued, “I want to say something to you, if I thought you
would not be angry with me: I wish you--but can’t you guess what I’m
going to say?”
Miss Peyton shook her pretty head, and confirmed the conviction
expressed by De Grandeville, that her family was of modern date, by
repudiating any connection with the race of Odipus. So poor, sensitive
Annie was forced to clothe her meaning in plain and unmistakable words,
which she endeavoured to do by resuming--
“My cousin Charles, dear Laura--you know we were brought up together as
children, and I love him as a brother; he is so kind-hearted and such
a sweet temper; and of course I am aware he makes himself rather
ridiculous sometimes with his indolence and affectation, but he has
been so spoiled and flattered by the set he lives in--it is only
manner--whenever he is really called upon to act, you have no notion
what good sense and right feeling he displays. Dear Laura, I can’t bear
to see him so unhappy!”
At the beginning of this speech Miss Peyton coloured slightly; as it
proceeded her eyes sparkled, and any one less occupied with their own
feelings than was Annie Grant might have observed that tears glistened
in them; but at its conclusion she observed in her usual quiet tone--
“I don’t believe Mr. Leicester is unhappy.”
“Ah! you don’t know him as well as I do,” returned Annie, her cheeks
glowing and her eyes beaming with the interest she took in the subject;
“he was so wretched all yesterday evening; he ate no supper, and sat
moping in corners, as unlike his natural, happy self as possible.”
“Did you hear that he had ordered post-horses at eight o’clock this
morning?” inquired Laura.
“No! you don’t mean it!” exclaimed Annie, clasping her hands in dismay.
“Oh, I hope he is not gone!”
“You may depend upon it he is,” rejoined Miss Peyton, turning to the
glass avowedly to smooth her glossy hair, which did not in the slightest
degree require that process, but in reality to hide a smile. “He must
be on his way to town by this time, _unless_ anything has occurred this
morning to cause him to alter his determination.”
“That is impossible,” returned Annie quickly; then adding in a tone of
the deepest reproach, “Oh, Laura! how could you be so cruel as to let
him go?” she burst into a flood of tears. And Laura, that heartless
young hyæna of fashionable life, that savage specimen of the perfidious
sex of whom a poet sings--
Woman, though so mild she seem,
Will take your heart and tantalise it;
Were it made of Portland stone,
She’d manage to Macadamise it”--
what do you suppose she did on the occasion? Nothing wonderful, and yet
the best thing she could, for she wreathed her soft arms round Annie’s
neck, and kissing away her tears, whispered in a few simple touching
words the secret of her happy love.